


The invention of I know not whom

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Birthday, Boys at the park, Fluff, M/M, Macarons, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-04-12
Packaged: 2018-01-19 02:19:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1451875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I didn’t attend your party last night…”</p><p>“Courfeyrac’s party,” Grantaire corrects him, “Courfeyrac does parties. For people. Consent doesn’t matter for Courfeyrac. I mean,” he swears through gritted teeth, “<em>of course</em> consent matters for Courfeyrac, I didn’t mean to offend your friend. Courfeyrac is a ray of sunshine and consent matters <em>so much</em> to him! Just… not when it comes to party planning.”</p><p>Enjolras has been standing still, listening to him with a blank expression on his face. “Grantaire,” he eventually says, “there was a stripper coming out of my cake on my sixteenth birthday party.”</p><p>“Oh,” Grantaire can only mutter. “I’m sorry for your childhood, I guess.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The invention of I know not whom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GrantaireandHisBottle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrantaireandHisBottle/gifts).



> EDIT: Apparently it wasn't GrantaireandhisBottle's actual birthday, my exam-ridden mind is so fucked up and apologizes BUT this is still a gift for her because she deserves a hundred gifts anyway so I guess I shouldn't be as embarrassed as I currently am?

Some say that alcohol completely and irrevocably fucks your mind, and that’s a terrible woe for a human being and/or other variations of creatures to behold. Bollocks, Grantaire will tell you. Because after all those hangovers, alcohol has almost made Grantaire a fucking philosopher. Grantaire knows stuff by now, he knows that birthdays are shitty inventions of fuck-knows-whom, he knows that they come earlier than expected yet have the same effects on you that a delayed period can have (he assumes so, he’s never had a period himself but he’s hung out way too much with Eponine and rushed many a time in godforsaken hours to find an open pharmacy and buy the-morning-after pills), he also knows you shouldn’t care about them more than you care for Michelle Obama’s knickers that showed when some promiscuous airport wind blew and it was all over the news and it upset a certain blonde, red hoodie-wearing activist way too much because _there are fucking wars going on in the world and this is what the news are about,_ instead he cares about it as much as he cares for said activist’s knickers. Because he’s getting fucking old.

Oh, and because Enjolras didn’t come to his party.

Of course Enjolras didn’t come to his party. It’s not that he hadn’t been fucking expecting it, that would have been absurd. He hadn’t wanted a fucking birthday party in first place but Courfeyrac had very dramatically let him know there was no way he was getting out of it. And he _knew_ that Enjolras had been invited, after all it was a pure matter of savoir-faire. Grantaire had felt way too uncomfortable at the possibility of Enjolras feeling pressed and obliged to attend the birthday celebration of someone he didn’t even bother to talk to other than fight or lecture, especially when he was so heavily occupied with saving the world, yet he wouldn’t have dared to ask Courfeyrac to keep him out of it while everyone else would be invited, that would be plain rude and it’s not that Grantaire has a problem with rudeness, but he does have a problem with assholes and that would also make _him_ an asshole.

So he spent the previous day trying to sleep through it, only Jehan and Cosette burst into his room at some point in the afternoon and started discussing _his_ outfit quite loudly in _his_ bedroom and, after he continued pretending he was still asleep, they started nudging and poking him over the duvet, and Jehan accidentally kicked him on the shin so Grantaire _had_ to get up and Jehan had to spend an hour saying he was sorry (though he really wasn’t) while Cosette had to run to take the first aid kit from the bathroom. So they dressed him up and let him tell you what, _that_ was the worst thing that could happen because both Cosette and Jehan finally came to an agreement that contained leather and black, and the problem was that he looked himself in the mirror and for once it was fucking _good,_ fucking bearable, even more than bearable, for some reason the attention wasn’t drawn in the bags under his eyes or on his crooked teeth, Cosette even combed his hair and it was _okay._ So okay that it secretly hurt when he realized that Enjolras wouldn’t show up to see him like that. It hurt even more when a tiny evil absinthe-Tinkerbell started poking on his guts (from the inside) and asked him _What if_? and he had to realize that even if Enjolras saw him dressed up like that he wouldn’t throw him a second glance and, even though Grantaire made a real effort to convince himself otherwise, it hurt so fucking much that his chest became all tight and his stomach all empty and his palms all clammy everytime that the bell rang and for a few seconds he could only imagine him entering the apartment only it was Bossuet, and Combeferre, and Marius, and Bahorel.

But what hurt the most was the pitiable assurance in Combeferre’s eyes that made it true, when that tiny hint of detestable hope was still inside him and he casually asked if Enjolras was coming.

“He’s so sorry, Grantaire, he truly is, but it’s the end of term and you know how he is. His spring allergies have really left his work behind and he’s really stressed out to finish everything.”

Yeah Combeferre, sure don’t worry, he just asked out of pure curiosity, to know whether a-stick-up-their-asses-friendly food should be served apart from vegan for Musichetta. Of course he understands. End of term. Spring allergies. There’s not a lump on his throat and he sure as hell isn’t going to get drunk.

He got drunk though. He really did. It wasn’t truly bad, he has to admit this. He actually was extremely touched. Courfeyrac like the wonderful friend that he is had organized everything perfectly, Jehan’s music was _truly_ odd and that helped him get drunk more quickly, Combeferre and Feuilly had dealt with the food and it was expectedly awesome, and his darling Eponine gave him the best present that got half of them high efficiently and quickly enough on the rooftop. _“A birthday treat from ‘Parnasse for exchange of that leather jacket you once gave him”._

So they ate and drank and played Twister and drank more and stopped Twister when Bahorel somehow ended with Musichetta’s bra on his head so they drank a bit more and then watched The Lion King. They were so occupied crying about Simba’s sorrows that he hardly even thought of Enjolras, especially when he was surrounded with such extraordinary friends and when Eponine was warm curled on him and Jehan was asbent-mindedly petting his hair. It was perfect, to be honest.

But as we’ve already said Grantaire is an alcohol philosopher and alcohol philosophers also happen to know that even if birthdays don’t formally suck, the day after the birthday is probably going to do so anyway. Therefore he’s not surprised, not in the least, when he wakes up to realize that cannons are probably blowing in his apartment and his skull is about to be split in half with a hammer and Athena isn't even going to come out of it. Then of course he understands that it’s just someone knocking on the door and, opening a bleary eye and inspecting the state of his bedroom, he realizes that one of his friends has probably returned to gather their forgotten belongings –or dignity. So he drags his aching bones out of bed and to the cold yet ridiculously sunny world to open the door.

“Whoever you are thank you for generally existing in my life and fuck you specifically for having forgotten a left sock in my fridge,” he mumbles while opening the door, and eternally regrets it when he finds himself facing no other but Enjolras in a baggy V-neck red sweater and a pair of blue, uh… _leggings._

Grantaire couldn’t be feeling less ready to deal with this than he is now.

“I’m wearing both my socks,” Enjolras says in a puzzled voice and they spend a few seconds staring at each other, absolutely dumbstruck. “Um, could I possibly…” he rubs the floor of the living room with the tip of his tennis shoe, “come inside?”

It takes another few seconds for Grantaire to consume the new piece of information before he steps back. “Of course,” he clears his throat, starting to fumble around in the room and helplessly trying to tidy up last night’s mayhem.

 “First of all happy belated birthday,” Enjolras shifts his weight from one foot to the other quite awkwardly, Grantaire notes.

“Thanks,” he half-smiles – half-squirms at the thought that, at least, he remembered. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“I didn’t attend your party last night…”

“Courfeyrac’s party,” Grantaire corrects him, “Courfeyrac does parties. For people. Consent doesn’t matter for Courfeyrac. I mean,” he swears through gritted teeth, “ _of course_ consent matters for Courfeyrac, I didn’t mean to offend your friend. Courfeyrac is a ray of sunshine and consent matters _so much_ to him! Just… not when it comes to party planning.”

Enjolras has been standing still, listening to him with a blank expression on his face. “Grantaire,” he eventually says, “there was a stripper coming out of my cake on my sixteenth birthday party.”

“Oh,” Grantaire can only mutter. “I’m sorry for your childhood, I guess.”

“I’m not,” Enjolras cracks half-a-smile. “I love Courfeyrac too much to ever regret a moment of our friendship,” he scrunches up his nose and _god who allows you to be so adorable,_ “maybe some moments.”

It’s very strange to hear Enjolras say the word _love_ and it actually twists Grantaire’s stomach in a pretty wrong way. He knows Enjolras doesn’t mean it romantically, yet it strucks Grantaire quite suddenly that Enjolras _is actually capable_ of loving, and he will never be half as blessed as Courfeyrac is, to even get the man to _like_ him. “You don’t need to worry or feel guilty,” he mutters eventually, feeling his cheeks gradually flushing at the horrible, embarrassing thought that Enjolras felt obliged to apologize for something he didn’t even care for. “I know it’s the end of your term. Work comes first, I guess.”

Enjolras nods slowly and then clears his throat. If Grantaire wouldn’t be completely shitfaced, he’d swear he noticed a faint flush painting Enjolras’ cheeks too. “Actually, there’s a reason I didn’t come.”

Grantaire leaves a sigh, his eyes falling on the paper bags Enjolras is holding in his hands. “Listen, we don’t need to talk about it, it really doesn’t matter, birthdays are stupid anyway…”

“I wanted us to be alone in this.”

Grantaire just stands there gaping. “Sorry, what?”

Enjolras takes a deep breath, gesturing with his head at the paperbags Grantaire didn’t really pay attention to. “I uh, I’d been preparing this.” Right. Okay. Grantaire is feeling perfectly okay. Grantaire isn’t going to collapse. Enjolras has been preparing this. “I’d found your birthday as a good opportunity to say some words. Without the presence of others. If of course that doesn’t make you uncomfortable”

“Enjolras,” the dark haired man starts slowly, “you do realize what happened the last time we were left alone in a room, right?”

“A vase broke?” the blonde tries to help, but he really doesn’t, “come on, it was my mother’s gift for the new apartment. I hated it anyway, okay? Anyway, we won't even stay inside, if that’s okay with you.”

 “Where – what – sorry I don’t understand,” Grantaire sighs.

“Just… leave it to me, okay? You go and change. I mean… you don’t have to. I don’t engage with social norms that have to do with appearance.”

Grantaire is just about to say that yes, he can easily see that because _who the fuck casually walks around looking so sinfully stunning in leggings – apart from Jehan, Cosette, Eponine and Bahorel, he thinks later, he’s seen everything in that life, thank you very much,_ but his attention is drawn by his own appearance. For some reason he’s wearing a pair of leopard briefs and a lace-trimmed tank top that, last time he checked, didn’t belong to him. Great. Lovely. He’s absolutely shitfaced and dressed with his friends' clothes – without even having had sex with them, that would only be wrong – while Enjolras is in his living room, waiting to turn his birthday into a fixing opportunity of having a serious talk about his alcoholism in some shitty fair-trade café. Seriously, on a scale of Breaking Dawn to Fifty Shades of Grey, how shitty can a day possibly get?

“I’ll wait for you,” Enjolras shrugs his shoulders, leaving his bags on the floor and taking a seat on the table, taking out his phone. “Do you have Wi-Fi?”

“No, my neighbors do. It’s cool if you want to check the news but you might face a few problems if you decide to watch porn or cat videos.” There is a pause where Enjolras raises his eyes to stare at him and Grantaire feels his whole body melting on the floor. “I don’t know why I said this. Right, I’m going to make myself presentable, I guess.”

Enjolras just smilesand gives a small nod before returning to his phone and Grantaire rushes into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him suddenly sobered up, with his heart racing madly in his chest. What the fuck is going on? How exactly is he supposed to deal with this? He can jump off the bathroom window and hopefully have an instant and painless death. Or he could just flush himself down the toilet.

Instead, he brushes his teeth and splashes water on his face, pees and changes underwear, and then peers in his wardrobe to throw on a plaid shirt and a paint-stained pair of jeans that make him look more pretentious than he can handle and less pathetic than he would care for.

Enjolras is still waiting on the table when he returns, and looks up. There is silence for a little bit and then the oddest thing in the history of odds happens. Enjolras clears his throat (Grantaire can see his apple bob) and mutters “you’re looking good” even though Grantaire knows he looks run over by a truck. Then the other man stands up and picks up his stuff. “Should we go?”

Grantaire makes an attempt to reply but only an ugly croak comes out of his mouth, so he just follows him out of the building and the apartment, and starts walking alongside him. “Where are we going?” he asks.

“Oh, not far,” Enjolras grimaces at the spring sun that hits his eyes and they continue walking the route which weirdly enough seems like…

“The park?”

“Do you mind?”

Does he mind? _Does he,_ now? Grantaire doesn’t fucking know if he minds or not. All he knows is that something’s really, terribly wrong. “Depends,” he says as they make their way to a bench. “Are you going to lecture me on my life decisions under a fully-bloomed, poetry and iPhone filter picture worthy almond tree?”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Okay. Sit down and close your eyes.”

“What?”

“Just, close your eyes.” Grantaire does so, and everything goes black. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes Jack,” Grantaire says sarcastically. Soon he’s seeing colorful stuff dancing before his shut eyelids and it’s kinda cool, but he has to snap out of it when Enjolras eventually says “You can open them.”

So Grantaire does, and he forgets how to breathe. On the bench there is an open paper box full with colorful macarons, and in the middle of the pile a single lit candle. There are no party hats or flower crowns or something equally ridiculous, just the macarons and Enjolras sitting on the bench, the sun reflecting on his blond curls and those tiny freckles that are splattered all around his nose and god those eyelashes… Grantaire thinks he will die, right on the spot, and to die by his side will be a real fucking heavenly way to die.

“Happy birthday,” Enjolras says again with a smile and now Grantaire is really DYING because a hand is hesitantly moving to rest atop of his own on his thigh. “Make a wish,” Enjolras says, rubbing his knuckles softly with his thumb.

Grantaire thinks this is all a huge, tasteless joke, an ugly, cruel nightmare or the most heavenly of dreams. So he shuts his eyes, makes a wish, the most absurd, impossible wish of all, and leans in to blow the candle. When he opens his eyes, Enjolras is smiling widely.

“These are macarons,” is all he can say.

“I know, I made them!” the blonde says proudly. “It took me a whole day, Jehan helped.”

“You made _macarons_? For me? Thank you, thank you so much for everything… Jehan… the sneaky bastard,” Grantaire hisses, “he didn’t mention anything!”

“He figured out it was a good occasion.”

“A good occasion about what, Enjolras?” Grantaire asks incredulously, his throat all dry.

“A good occasion,” Enjolras takes his hand away and Grantaire thinks he’s going to cry, “to talk to you of my feelings.”

“What are you talking about?” Grantaire asks carefully and there’s barely any voice coming out of his mouth because he thinks he’s going to faint.

As a response, Enjolras takes a paperbox out of the second paperbag and hands it to Grantaire. “This is for you,” he says, “sorry I couldn’t get anything better but it’s the end of my term. I hope it makes sense.”

Grantaire slowly opens the box, his heart hammering against his ribs. His fingers touch a group of uneven, small things. A ticket from The Deathly Hallows, part 2. He recognized the first time Enjolras joined them in the movies a couple of years ago, when he’d first entered the group. A wrapping from cigarettes. Grantaire’s brand of cigarettes, Enjolras doesn’t smoke. A series of mocking little doodles of Enjolras, Grantaire remembers that meeting when he deliberately scattered them all around the tables of the Musain. A receipt from the coffee they’d taken together when Enjolras had been stuck with him during the fliers photocopying. An elastic band that Grantaire gave him once and never had it returned, a tiny flowery “fuck the patriarchy” that Grantaire doesn’t even remember doodling on the back of a paper napkin and just when he’s about either to scream or to pass out on the bench in the middle of the spring feast with the green grass and the bright sun and the children playing and the birds singing, Grantaire finds a teal lump of wool on the bottom of the box.

“A scarf?” he says breathlessly, because that’s all he can say, no thank you’s, no please send help, just _a scarf_? In the middle of April?

Enjolras, looking positively flustered, clears his throat. “I’d knitted it for you for Christmas, but we had a fight on Christmas Eve. I said you were useless and disgusting and you said you hoped I’d fuck myself with a lamppost.”

Grantaire cringes at the thought. “I remember. I’m sorry, god I’m sorry…”

“Don’t worry, I shouldn’t have told you that you reeked of alcohol.”

“You _knit_?”

"Combeferre decided it would be a good outlet for my stressful days," Enjolras grins softly. “There’s so much you don’t know about me.”

Grantaire is surrounded by all these things that make his chest ready to explode and his whole being is literally burning with shame and guilt and adoration and _god what’s happening is he really living this?_ So he just asks.

“Thank you, I don’t know how to thank you but… what’s happening? Enjolras please, tell me what is happening!”

“I don’t… I don’t really know,” Enjolras says and god his voice is a bit shaky, “I think I’m just about to ask you for a kiss?”

Grantaire’s heart is ready to explode out of his chest when he just breathes “yes?” and Enjolras cups his face ever so gently and leans closer, and Grantaire shuts his eyes and waits, and dies, and is resurrected by the songs of the angels and the flirting birds on the tree branches, and waits…

And Enjolras sneezes. Twice. Once more. And again.

“We’re in the park,” Grantaire murmurs, “you’re allergic. And you’re a bloody fool.”

“Shut up,” Enjolras breathes hard against his lips after wiping his nose with the back of his hand, and then their lips meet.

Grantaire’s next birthday is 363.5 days away and, lying in Enjolras’ bed and watching his chest rise and fall peacefully in the moonlight that enters through the window, as the philosopher that he is, he knows that birthdays are the most excellent invention of I-want-to-kiss-whomever-it-was-but-I-can’t-because-all-I-really-want-to-do-is-kiss-my-gorgeous-boyfriend-instead, and the best occasion to remind him not that he exists, but the reasons he does so.

**Author's Note:**

> Also it's my own birthday on Thursday and if you can't tell I kinda really want macarons and a picnic so please cross your fingers for good weather! Thank you so much for reading have some macarons <3


End file.
